


Keep Hold

by grapehyasynth



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Friends to Lovers, Jemma Simmons Has No Chill, Sex Dreams, UST, fitz gets to go along for the ride, she's thirsty af
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-29
Updated: 2016-09-29
Packaged: 2018-08-18 14:06:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8164556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grapehyasynth/pseuds/grapehyasynth
Summary: Jemma's been having rather intense, rather explicit dreams about Fitz lately... and somehow they all center on his hair. Set in some kind of SHIELD verse but no specific time/verse/AU specified. UST/pre-relationship.





	

**Author's Note:**

> See my Paradise Found chapter 15 (latest update) for my personal life deets if ya want... I was brainstorming this during a very official session to which I should've been paying more attention but HEY I haven't been able to write lately so this is either me adjusting or me escaping through FS smut. 
> 
> Enjoy, I suppose!

_Jemma groans and squirms against the pillows, eyes squeezed shut in ecstasy. She knows she should hold still but she feels she will burst from the sensations. One hand clenches in the bedsheets and with the other she reaches down and snares a hold of that hair, that beautiful hair she can’t stop thinking about. It’s not enough to feel it, though, like everything in this moment: everything she does to satisfy herself leads to more need. So she forces her eyes open, panting, and finally looks down at it. The hair, just short of curls but enough for a firm grip, is buried between her legs, just tickling her lower belly. If she tugs just right…_

_Fitz responds and tilts his head up to look at her._

Jemma wakes with a gasp to find herself tangled in her blankets and drenched in sweat. Though well aware of her own sexual interests and desires, she’d long thought wet dreams were mainly the territory of men. And yet here she is, startled nearly every night from sleep by wildly inappropriate dreams starring her best friend and lab partner. And, oddly enough, they all seem to center on his _hair_ , of all things.

And though the dreams may be imaginary, the physical response in her own body is very real. But she knows that trying to get herself off will never be as satisfying as the magical way Fitz was pleasuring her in her dream.

It will take her forever to fall back asleep. The darkness of her room or the darkness behind her eyelids – both conceal visions of Fitz in various compromising positions and states of undress.

She sighs and rolls over, pounding her pillow down. Maybe she should invest in a vibrator.

 

 

_The table thumps underneath them as he grinds against her again and Jemma grips the edge, biting her lip to hold back a moan lest their colleagues overhear their activities from a few rooms over. They’re still fully clothed but he’s unbuttoned her shirt a bit and is thoroughly appreciating the upper curves of her breasts. Much as she loves his face, this also gives her an excellent vantage point of his hair. As she admires the way it brushes goosebumps across her skin, his tongue sneaks into the valley between her breasts, shooting exhilarating tingles across her chest, and she arches unconsciously to beg for more. He is not expecting it and he retreats, rubbing his forehead where it has collided with her collarbone._

_Fitz looks up at her with a mock wounded-puppy expression, but she just laughs and grabs his hair and pushes him back to focus on his task._

If they want her to concentrate, they really can’t seat her behind Fitz.

The Director is talking about new accounting procedures – or is it health insurance? She’s not gotten a word of it, having spent the last twenty minutes gazing at the back of Fitz’s head and the glorious hair that adorns it. She’s spent so much time admiring it in her sleep that it’s a bit surreal to be mere inches from it, close enough to touch.

She wonders what it looks like after he’s been caught in the rain or when it’s lathered with shampoo. She already knows what it looks like mussed in moments of stress, the way he pushes it up at the sides when a solution evades him in the lab, but she’s curious how else it could be sent into disarray…

She’s fairly certain there is nothing particularly exceptional about his hair. Rather, she presumes, her preoccupation comes from the specific person to whom it is attached. In the same way that previously unremarkable cars or clothing become elevated when paired with someone one desires, Fitz’s hair is a manifestation of her now undeniable interest in catalyzing a chemical reaction between their two persons.

 

 

_Finally he is close enough, his mouth on hers so she can slide the fingers of both hands through his hair and hold him to her as they writhe. But this time she is not alone in her fascination: one hand holds her hip down as he thrusts but the other is curled in her hair. His fingers tense now and again and she craves something harder. Unable to find the words to ask, unwilling to disrupt their activities, she wraps her legs around his thighs and sets about showing him._

“Are you okay?” Fitz frets, crouching beside her as she drops to the floor of the hangar.

“I’m fine, I—“ He’s so close, and she’s so tired from their escape which so nearly failed, and she could almost just lean over and--

“What’s this?” He’s seen the blood matting her hair, and before she can urge him away he’s tenderly sifting through her hair to find the injury. She’s checked it herself already and knows it’s superficial, but his fingers tracing across her scalp are the most sensuous thing she’s ever experienced and she would not speak to stop him for all the money in the world.

Nothing in his gentle care should induce her to imagine his teeth nipping down her arm or his hands fisted in her hair but she wishes her injury had been somewhere under her clothing so she could shed them all right here and now and feel his ministrations everywhere.

Fitz has become a pulsing desire between her legs. She has a possessive need to touch his hair, to not let anyone else touch it. Fitz is swelling over her and the need nearly distracts her from how inappropriate it is to think this way about her best friend when he may not return the feeling.

During the day she can push down the thoughts, limit her daydreams. But at night, her desperate, thirsty mind wanders where it will…

To avoid any unpleasant encounters, she’s careful not to so much as nap where others may come across her at an inopportune time. But after a long day of triage for a flood of bystanders caught in the crossfire of a coup, she collapses on the couch in the common space, assuming everyone else will be too busy bustling around the base.

 

 

_The dream begins innocently enough. She is giving him a haircut, like she’d done a few times at the Academy and SciOps when they were tight on spending money and cut expenses anywhere they could. But as always in this dreamland, she gets distracted, the scissors falling forgotten to the floor as she instead strokes through his hair. She ghosts over the few hairs that spread down the skin between his cheek and his ear; she runs her palm across the waves on the top; she slides down to the shorter hairs at the base of his neck, to the smooth skin just above his shirt. How will she ever get enough of Fitz if there is this much to know just of his hair?_

_Then he turns his head, captures her hand and kisses her fingers. Compared to her previous imaginings this is so tame but even in a dream the imagined contact is such a release that it’s too much for her._

_“Fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiitz,” she moans as he licks up her arm, and she reaches for him—_

And promptly falls off the couch.

And looks up to see a Fitz staring down at her, frozen in the doorway.

She scrambles quickly to her feet, tugging her clothes into place and praying she wasn’t humping her hand or something likewise unforgivably embarrassing. Regardless, there’s no way she can possibly explain what has just happened, what Fitz has just overheard, besides the truth. How exactly is she supposed to inform Fitz that she both wants him to bring her to toe-curling orgasm and wants to grow old with him?

But then, mercifully, she notices the tightness of the front of his jeans. Unless he’s run in here to escape something arousing elsewhere on the base – and she somehow seriously doubts that – he’s experiencing a biological reaction to what he’s heard and what he has inferred from that.

She glances up to find Fitz still gaping at her, obviously very aware of where she was just looking.

She doesn’t have time to even develop a blush before they are crashing together, kissing desperately and roughly and shoddily, backing towards the door to the hallway even as Fitz’s hands burn hot on the skin just under Jemma’s blouse.

Normally all about control in these sorts of situations, with Fitz she’s quite content to let him guide her towards his bunk, both hands buried deeply in his hair, the sensation of finally feeling it brush against her skin nearly as compelling as his lips on hers, his hard-on against her hip, the little whine she elicits when she drags her fingernails across his scalp.

She can’t think of a single position in which she won’t still be able to keep hold of Fitz’s hair, and she plans to test that all night long.  

 

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on Tumblr but I'm never there anymore :( :( :(


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